Against the Tides
by Ambrelle Shirak
Summary: Set following Riddick: Rule the Dark. Riddick is scouring all the planets destroyed by the Necromonger Empire, searching for Furya. Mnemosyne is a survivalist out to prove that these same planets are not cursed, but survivable and habitable. She gets more than she bargained for, and possibly more than she can handle... (Rated for Language, at the least)
1. Chapter 1

**Riddick**

Well, well, well, what have we here? I thought I was alone on this rock, nothing but me, the rocks and the long-ass days. But the cloudless skies are broken by a vapor trail: a transport, careening through the atmosphere. But what's it doing here, on a planet that had been dead for decades? I've seen no outpost, no sign of habitation; not that the Necromongers would leave any traces behind. I watch, for as long as I can see the trail, but instead of making full planet-fall, the ship jettisons something. An escape pod, perhaps? Or maybe not. The transport doesn't crash; it corrects course, and leaves atmosphere almost as quickly as it appeared.

At this distance, I can only pick out shapes, vague directions. It never takes me long to come to a decision; before the capsule is even visible as a separate thing from the ship, I'm already running down the slope. Running is calming, focusing. It makes me stop thinking; it makes me act.

The planetary landscape left behind by the Necromonger empire is tell-tale. Not only do they leave the Icons behind, but a wasteland of ash and dust, and a trail of extinct societies. I only know that this isn't what I'm looking for, and the crap merc ship that Johns stuck me with won't make it off planet. So wherever that thing lands, I'll have a better chance getting off this rock than if I stayed put.

This planet was decimated maybe ten years ago, just long enough for invasive and hardy creatures to start making a comeback. Even as I run, I spot the scurrying signs of life, the sand rippled in serpentine paths, dotted with tiny holes here and there. I'm careful to stagger the rhythm of my feet, taking care to have as much of a randomized pattern as I can across the ground. The same things that leave the holes, you see, they like to home in on vibrations, and can eat your foot before you get it off the ground.

I find a ridge, a couple of rocks, just big enough to crouch down behind. The capsule is smoking in the furrow of earth it's kicked up. It just sits there, like it's waiting to be opened. But I know better than to venture down and see what's what. I'll just let this play out without my participation. I really don't have to wait long, because the enviro-locks hiss, equalizing the pressure between the compartment, and the rest of the world. After a moment or two more, the hatch slides open, and a figure steps out.

I'm surprised that it's a woman, alone on this rock. She's unsteady on her feet, a sure sign of weakness, that tells me she's not fit to be here. She uses the capsule as a seat; her shoulders occasionally convulsing. Cryo-sick, I realize. She's refusing to be cryo-sick; she knows how precious bodily fluids are in an arid environment like this one. From this distance, I feel myself willing her to keep it together. It will pass, girl; it will.

Finally, I watch her take a long slow breath, and slide off the top of the capsule. Almost instantly, she goes to work. Pipes break with screaming metal, entire bundles of wire are yanked from housings and thrown to one side. I'm fascinated as she works, stripping the capsule of anything useful. Eventually, she climbs can into the cockpit, and I see the seat cover get tossed out. When she emerges again, her eyes scan the ridge I'm crouched on, then the plains extending far out to her west. It's the only moment of rest that I witness, before she's back to work.

She has the tan of someone who works outside a lot, and the physical strength in her hands and arms necessary to rip bolts and shear casings off. I watch as she turns the seat cover into a makeshift backpack. Okay, that was an impressive feat of ingenuity. I figure she's going to come for the ridge, make for higher ground, so I prepare to hide, to make myself invisible. But she doesn't turn my way, instead, she looks to the north, to the multi-faced spire of the Necromonger Icon silhouetted against the horizon.

"Dumb move, girl," I mutter as she turns north, hefting the wire-strapped shuttle-seat backpack. She retrieves one last thing from the shuttle, before striking forward. I wait until she's nothing but a hazy speck on the plain before I start moving after her. She's got me curious, wondering all manner of why, and how, and who.

I follow her all the way to the Icon. I had expected her to flag at some point, to fade and stop, but she never tired, never paused. The Conquest Icon is ground zero for the Ascension Protocol, the final stage in the Necromonger domination cycle. This one still stands, impossibly tall, impossibly black and glossy even after the years have passed. She, this woman, strides into its shadow like it's nothing more than a tree, but I soon figure out what she's after. The orbs needlessly obliterate life in an immense circle, but this close to the base, I realize, some of the buildings have been left at least partially standing. She's here for shelter. She finds one building with a partial roof, a slab of stone that survived the blast, leaning up against a wall. She settles in to make shelter, even as I pad around the perimeter, checking for signs of serpents, or any of the other hostile life still on this rock.

She has no idea I'm here, which is just fine by me. It's not that she's not observant, I'm just better at stealth than she is as detecting it. By the time I finish my circuit, the makeshift backpack and wires have turned into a makeshift hammock. I'm close enough now that I can see the color of her eyes as she glances around the shelter she's perfecting.

They're green. The kind of green that you only find in the jungle, dark and deep and mysterious.

The final object that she retrieved from her capsule seems to be some kind of recorder. She sets it on a pile of rubble, and settles in, sitting on the edge of her hammock.

"Journal of Mnemosyne Grant, Day One."

It's been months since I've heard the voice of another human being. Months since Dahl, and Johns, and the religious kid. I must be getting soft, because it's nice to hear another voice, aside from my own. I settle in a little, listening, eavesdropping, as she records her video journal.

"I'm finally planetside on Cetarian One, fifth out of the seven Ascended planets I've been asked to survive. You know the drill by now, folks, if you're seeing this broadwaved before thirty standard solars have passed, the planet was too much for me."

She reaches out, picking up the recorder, and panning it around the ruins. Then she pans it upward, toward the Conquest Icon.

"A little history for you folks... ten years ago, Cetarian One was a thriving shipping planet. Until the comet showed up. The rest is written. The Necro-douche's fucked the people, and then fucked the planet. And this is what's left, ten years later." She scoops up a handful of dirt, letting it sift through her fingers. "Arid. Desolate. All that survived is probably microbes, and cockroaches." She turns, then, back to her camp, reorienting the recorder back upon herself. I see her smile. She has dimples.

"But, I set out to prove that we can repopulate these places five years ago, and I'm going to show you again. These planets aren't dead. They aren't cursed. They just need some hardy folks, willing to put a little effort into life. Until tomorrow... Mnemosyne Grant, signing out."

I scrub my jaw as she packs away the little recorder. I see her set something on her watch, and she turns back to her camp. A soft sound rises this time as she works, moving rubble and brushing away dust from the floor. I listen intently, as her warm, mellow voice raises in song.


	2. Chapter 2

**Mnemosyne**

They told me it couldn't be done. That I was insane, reckless, and stupid. But I've survived thirty solars a piece, on four planets that everyone else told me were dead. It could happen. We could reclaim these places, make refuges for people like me, people who couldn't cut it in the normal systems. Ones who barely skirted by without turning Merc, or inmate.

No one gets why I want to do this. Not even the mercs on the ship that dropped me off on this dustball. No one else has this need to push themselves, to know the limitations of their body, to feel the strain and fear and triumphs of being one person against nature itself. I've been here for five solar's already, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm not fully alone.

Yesterday, I learned how to draw out the creatures that leave all the holes in the dirt. Rhythmic thumping, coupled with a sturdy metal post to stab them with, have yielded me a fair cache of meat. I'm starting to think of them as ouroboros, huge mouthed serpents with rows upon rows of nasty teeth. I haven't found anything combustible yet, so today, I'm going to trek back to the pod, and extract the padding from the seat and the little life support powercell. I'd been hoping I wouldn't have to lug the 20 kilo cell all the way back, but it's looking more and more like I'm going to need to do just that.

I bring my killing pole with me. It's really no more than a length of rebar and iron broken off to a pointy end, but it's my only weapon, and my only tool right now. I have to keep an eye on the suns too. In a binary system like this one, with the suns so close together, they don't always completely set, but last night, the dimmer of the two came perilously close to disappearing completely. Which means that there's going to be a nighttime soon enough.

When I make mistakes, it's usually ones like this one: pushing myself too far, falling over the hump of exhaustion and letting my _wants_ outweigh my survival _needs_. My want for cooked meat is one of these moments. I get all the way to the pod before the suns start to set, and I'm hanging half inside the cockpit, tearing at the foam padding for the seat when I first hear it.

It sounds at first, like a fight: like one of the big-mawed serpent-things struggling to eat something. Most of the ones I've killed so far are at most a meter long, so when I look slowly up from my task, I'm unsure what to expect. The sound comes from the ridge line to the east, and as I watch, contemplating my next move, they come over the crest.

It's the largest ouroboros I've ever seen, the largest I ever hope to see again, and it is completely wrapped around something. Someone. I see hands, large, dark-skinned hands gripping the upper and lower jaws of the serpent. Before I even realize what I'm doing, I dive into the cockpit of the pod, ducking down and gripping my little rebar spear tightly. It feels puny and useless against the size of that creature.

Fear is a natural survival instinct, but the flight-or-fight response can be a deadly one in any situation. I could hear the fight raging on outside my little safety zone, the ouroboros hissing and screaming as it thrashed, and a deeper sound, a growl that I can only assume comes from within the coils of the beast. The fight suddenly spills over into the trench the pod's landing created, someone's body slamming up against the hull, rocking the entire structure thirty-degrees to its side. I'm inside. I yelp, and grab whatever I can to keep myself stable and stationary. Back and forth the whole thing rocks, while I'm wedged like a spider monkey in the cockpit. And then, all at once, there's a tremendous snap, and silence.

I shift slightly, bringing the iron spear up in front of myself, ready to thrust at whatever is going to show over the lip of the broken door. It feels like an eternity that passes, when at most it's moments, mere heartbeats. The pod shifts again, as weight settles atop it, and moments later, the crunch of metal beneath a heavy-soled boot heralds his arrival.

The immediate sense I get off him is: _threat_. I raise the rebar spear. In the fading light of the yellow sun, I swear for a moment, that his eyes gleam silver. Dark-skinned, clean shaven, he's broad enough to cast the entire pod into shadows. I'm kind of okay with this silent staring contest. If he's staring, he's not attacking. He raises a hand, and I very nearly flinch, expecting that hand to come down on me, but it doesn't. Instead, he points, back toward the Icon, toward the setting suns. Then, he speaks.

"Get back to your camp, before sundown."

I blink, and just like that, he's gone. Like he was never there to begin with. I'm not ignorant enough to ignore his advice. I scramble out of the cockpit, leave all the foam and I choose not to take the powercell, in favor of a long sprint back to my camp. By the time I reach it, the red sun is nearly halfway gone. I skid to a halt beneath the angled roof, and I eye the raw meat hanging from makeshift hooks. Grabbing one of the half-dried hunks, I forget my want to cook it, and just tear into it raw. From my seat in my hammock, I can watch the sliver of the red sun vanish beneath the dust-obscured horizon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Riddick**

This night feels like it could last forever. I hear them out there, slithering, sliding. I wonder what they're doing out there in the dark. The temperature has dropped, moisture in the air is starting to condense on every surface it can find. I can hear Mnemosyne shivering. She hasn't dared sleep yet, she keeps walking the semi-circle of open space in front of her camp, shifting that spear back and forth between her hands. She has no clue I'm here.

I wasn't really the first impression I was hoping for. But Daddy Snake wanted me for dinner, while I had other ideas. At least she knows she's not alone on this rock. Maybe that's some kind of small comfort. I had wanted to stay hidden until a ship came to retrieve her; I could have snuck on board, stowed away. But that snake had other ideas. No matter, it was dead, and I wasn't, simple as that. And the girl, she's my ticket off this rock. It's in my own interest to keep her alive.

Somewhere off to our left, there's a noise, a skittering of sand down rock and metal. I can see perfectly well: I see her turn toward the noise, squinting into the darkness.

"Hello?" Even speaking, her voice has a musical quality to it. "Is that you, stranger? Look, I've got food enough to share..."

She thinks that's me. How cute. I'm pretty sure she'll stay put in the camp, and I go back to watching out for the serpents. But the next thing I know, I see her, skirting the edge of my vision, one hand running along the ruined walls, the other holding the spear before her. I climb to a higher vantage point, surveying the ruins before her. And I spot it, circling around, moving between buildings. If I'd killed the Daddy snake, this had to be the Mother.

I'm soundless as I drop to the ground, and start running toward her flank. Mnemosyne was about to be snake-bait. Knives fall easily from their sheaths against my forearms, the release mechanism triggered by a certain twist of my wrist. I jump, from the ground, to the side of crumbling wall, using the momentum and height to launch me onto the snake's back.

Both knives plunge hilt deep into the serpent's back, and it rear's back, head thrown back, screaming to the sky. The girl strikes sparks with her rebar spear, missing the snake completely, but grazing scrap metal in the process. The snake thrashes, but I refuse to let go, even as it slams me into the ruins, and then repeatedly into the ground. It's tail arches over it's back, and I can feel it start to wrap around my leg. I take the opportunity, to yank one knife out, reaching further up it's body, and reseating the blade.

I hear a new scream of pain from the snake, and I realize that the girl's managed to strike true. I continue to open huge gaping wounds in it's back, as I climb the distance up toward it's head. Once again, I feel the tail wrapping around my leg, and after a few kicks, I'm free again. _It_ invaded my territory; _it_ threatened my escape from this world. _It_ was going to die, and die bloody.

I have it's eyes in near reach, when suddenly it doubles up on itself, wrapping it's tail around my body and ripping me free of it's back. I'm dimly aware of soaring through the air, roaring my displeasure at being unseated. I don't land well. Pain, I can cope with, mentally at least. But there are even limits to what my body can endure. Something about the sickening crunch that I land with, something about the way my leg is bent beneath me, and the burst of light and pain that flashes in my vision ends up being too much.

All I can hope, as the world starts to go dark, is that the girl can finish what I started...


	4. Chapter 4

**Mnemosyne**

The thing is still screaming, a high pitched wailing that hurts my ears. But at least I can tell where it is. The steel in my hands is cold, and getting slick with blood. It's not mine thankfully, but the giant ouroboros'. I'm talking myself up as I'm zeroing in on the creature. As soon as the wailing starts to get closer, I brace myself, and thrust the rebar into the air. The snake impales itself, trying to come after me. I keep pushing until I feel the dry skin of its neck against my hands, and then I scurry away, fearful of getting crushed. With the wailing silenced, it goes so quiet that I can hear labored breathing nearby.

"Hey?" My voice sounds alien and hollow, croaking worth thirsty and exertion. I know I've got little chance of finding my way back to camp. Not in a darkness this complete.

"Over here." His voice is so deep that I imagine the ground trembling from the sound.

I turn to orient myself. "Keep talking."

"Six paces forward," comes the answer. So, I comply. What else am I going to do? This planet has no moons, the upper atmosphere is so thick that it blocks all but the brightest stars. "Good. Now, reach out. I'm going to need help walking."

As soon as my hand lifts from my side, he grabs it. I'm struck with a vision of those hands, breaking the jaws of an ouroboros. I brace myself when he pulls, that voice growling in pain and concentration. There's a flash of silver in the darkness, moments before the weight of his arm settles over my shoulder. Gentle pressure gets us turned in place.

"Can you trust me for five minutes?" There's the silver again, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's looking directly at me. His eyes almost glow from within, and this close I can see he lacks an iris. "I'll get us back to your camp, but you have to trust me. "

I know what he's saying. If I don't help him, we both die. Because I can't see where I'm going, and he can't walk without assistance. I nod, and then clear my throat, my throat gone suddenly dry. "Yeah."

"Start walking, forward, slowly."

I can hear his teeth grinding against the pain, feel the drag of his leg behind us. His five minutes turns into ten, then fifteen, then nearly twenty before I feel like I'm back in familiar territory. Once back in camp, his arm vanishes from my shoulders and, absent his warmth, I start shivering. Two hops and I can hear him lowering himself to the ground. But, I know my camp well enough that I don't stumble once getting to his side. I kneel close enough to touch him, but not hinder him.

I find the top of his boot with my hand, doing my best to travel lightly upwards. It's twisted at an odd angle, and it doesn't take me long to discover why. My finger barely contacts the jagged edge of his femur before he reacts. Those immense hands close around my wrists, and nothing but a savage snarl explains why. He's hurt; it's pain dictating his moves. I don't fight against his strength. Consciously, I'm aware of my fear. As soon as I recognize that, it rapidly gets channeled into something else. Fear is healthy, I know this. Fear can save your life, but fear can also hurt you.

I let the frustration sharpen my tone. "I have to set your leg. Unless you want to heal crooked and walk like a gimp the rest of your life." Those silver eyes close for a second, taking away my point of reference, but I seem to get through to him. He doesn't release my wrists, but he lowers my hands back to his thigh. "I can do this. On the count of three. One." His eyes open again, locking into mine. "Two."

That's when I push, without warning. Setting a bone is all about feel, how the ends match together. And his femur had been sticking out. There's a warm gush of fresh blood that spurts through my fingers. Once, twice, three times, then it's done, easing to a trickle as I keep pressure on it. As for him, not a sound, not a peep. I can no longer see his eyes, but his breathing was hard, fast, and ragged.

"I... thought you said... on three..." I think I detect a hint of amusement in his voice, and I'm uncertain for a moment if I should answer him with the same. So instead, it's silence. I take a moment to readjust my position, and I end up just sitting next to him in the darkness. It's strange. I can feel him watching me, waiting for something.

"When the suns come back up, we'll get your leg splinted. I'm sure I can find more rebar."

"If the suns come back up."

I can't see him, but I know he can see me. So the glare I shoot in his direction isn't lost on him. "Aren't you just a fucking ray of sunshine? Look, Cetarian is supposed to be locked in a synchronous heliocentric orbit. This is supposed to be the light side of the planet... there isn't _supposed_ to be nightfall here. The suns _have_ to come back up."

He answers me with silence, the odd silver-glow of his eyes missing in the darkness. I listen but his breathing hasn't changed. Sensing the opportunity to talk has passed, I put my hands to the dirt and start to push myself to my feet. Just when I'm about to stand, his hand catches my arm again.

"Here."

Two things press into my hand, before I'm released completely again. I let my fingers do the exploring as I carefully pace a distance away from him. One object is easily identified as a knife, sized for his large paws, but balanced and serviceable for what I may need. The other is long, cylindrical, and capped on both ends. It takes me a few minutes to figure out that it's a glowstick, an older model, but at least it'll give me some kind of light.

I whack the glowstick against a wall, shattering the interior tube to mix the two phosphorescent chemicals together. As the light slowly grows in strength, I glance back to where Tall, Dark and Gruesome rests. I should use the light to check on his leg a little better, but a noise from within the camp reminds me that the ouroboros are out there. And they are apparently driven off by the light. It's up to me to pull guard duty, then.

I hook the glowlight to my belt, and test the knife in each hand, finding a comfortable way to grip it. And I'm overcome with that feeling again, the twisting of the hindbrain that warns against danger, but when I survey the surroundings, I don't find anything amiss. No serpents, no dangers... that is, until I turn around.

The glowlight hanging from my hip seems to make his eyes glow more. I swallow a lump in my throat, wondering if I'd made the right choice. Who knows who this guy is. Maybe I could have survived without him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Riddick**

I must have fallen asleep at some point. The kind of sleep that only comes when you've reached the absolute end of your rope, when the choice between trusting someone or facing certain death at the hands of exhaustion becomes an easy one. But sleep is no kind of reprieve for guys like me. When you sleep, your unconscious mind likes to play tricks on you. There's no restfulness for me during this long night. Conversations play back in my mind, things I could have, and should have done differently. I see Jack as a child, hero worship in her eyes. And later, Kyra, beautiful, cold, and predatory, realizing only too late that she'd love me, for no other reason than the fact that I was _me._ Vaako, always pushing, always needling, promising me Furya, and giving me nothing but a demon-infested mud-ball.

So it's no surprise to me, when I come to, waking up out of the fog of exhaustion, that I've a shiv in my hand, and a throat beneath the edge. This girl keeps impressing me. There's no scream, no sound of fear from her, but I know she feels it. I can see it in her eyes, the way they stare, wide and impossibly green. But she masters her fear, she uses it to her advantage. She's no sheep. But she's smart: she doesn't move, she doesn't even dare to breathe.

Slowly, I pull the blade back, setting it down in the dirt beside me. I don't apologize; I don't even acknowledge the fact I could have easily slit her throat there. She doesn't have a fit either, merely sitting back on her haunches and covering her throat with a hand. She gives herself a few moments to gather her wits, during that time, I look at the sky.

The suns must be rising. The cloudless sky is a riot of colors, blues, reds, purples and deep orange stripe the stratosphere. The hammock's gone, turned from bed into backpack once again. The glowlight is dead, and I wonder how long it's been that way. Just how long did that night last?

"I'm going to go round up some things to splint that with. I won't be gone long."

I must still be half asleep, because she leaves without me so much as acknowledging her. I reach around my back and unhook my goggles from their clip, taking my time sliding them on. That lessens the pain a little, makes it easier to resolve things in my vision. I look down at my thigh, and realize that my lethargy is probably shock, blood-loss. The golden sand is stained crimson beneath me; there's a three-inch long hole in my leg where my femur had busted through.

I heal fast, under the right circumstances: plenty of food, taking it easy on myself, things like that. But this planet offers little opportunity for either situation. I hate being dependent on someone else, even when that someone is as fine a looking girl as this Mnemosyne Grant is. But I suppose in an odd way, I should be flattered. This is as close to pampering as I get. It's a bit of role reversal. Earlier, her life depended on me, now, mine depends on her.

I take my time to study the camp while she's gone. She picked a good spot, walled in on three sides, at least waist-high, while the fourth is this one, where half the wall had fallen down to form a roof. Entrance is exactly what it should be, an old open space where a door once was. As I look around, I realize, this is what New Mecca would have looked like if I hadn't killed Zhylaw, and taken Grand Marshal. I suppose something good came of that charade.

I tip my head back, deciding to take it easy until the girl gets back. If I can find out her story, get the skinny on when the ship will pick her back up, I can start planning. I must doze off again, because the smell of her wakes me when she returns. Not the smell of the meat she's carrying, not the smell of the water, or anything else, but _her_. Female. Strong. Confident.

She drops the bag beside me as I pick up my head.

"You awake, Gruesome?"

Wait. What did she just call me? "What?" It's out before I can process.

"Good. This'll hurt, but the rest of them picked the big one clean. I got ribs, and meat, and skin, so you won't have to sit on the ground." She trails off because I haven't stopped staring at her. Humans are always unsettled by my gaze, but she tilts her head slightly to one side, and pauses, only for a moment. "Splint first, breakfast after, Gruesome."

Unbelievable. She's really calling me that. Dumping out the backpack, she starts picking up rib bones from the big serpent we killed, and comparing them against the size of my leg. Every few moments, she has to tuck her hair back, as it curls and ropes and falls down in her eyes. Her hands are bloody, but she acts like she doesn't notice.

"My name is Riddick."

And then she's smiling. "There, finally!" Behind the goggles, she can't see me look away. Her eyes light up when she smiles. "I'm Mnemosyne... or just Nim."

I try to shift to make things easier on her, her hand supports my knee as I grind my teeth against the pain. I'm just about to ask her what she's going to tie the splint with, when she starts tearing her shirt at the hem.

"This is the best we can do without a med pack. Unless you have a ship... that has a med pack." She's covering the hole where my femur popped out first, before carefully framing my thigh with four curved rib bones. I help her best I can, holding the pieces in place she while she wraps the strips of her shirt around. I grunt as she pulls the splint tight, causing her to glance up at me in concern.

"You really do this with nothin', huh?" Together, we settle my leg back into place, and I release a slow breath, purging myself of the adrenaline, forcing myself to be calm.

"I have to. If I'm going to prove these planets habitable.. if I can do it with nothing, imagine what a fully stocked colonization ship could do?" She sits herself down, beside me, inside my bubble of personal space. She must feel safe sitting there, on my bad side, confident that I won't go for her.

"Colonization? You work for the Company?"

She's so close I can feel her tremble when I mention them. "They foot the bill. Transportation, media fees... I'm doing this for myself." She tips her head back, and I take a moment to follow her gaze. The Conquest Icon looms overhead, lined by the fires of the rising suns. "Those douchebags stole everything. Killed my home, took my mother... if bringing new life in their wake is all I can do, then that's what I'm gonna do."

I focus on the girl from the time she tells me the Necromonger's killed her homeworld. I search my own memories, trying to remember if I saw those eyes among Necropolis. But I come up blank. I can feel her anger, directed up at the stone faces to high above. But she takes a long slow breath, and she buries that anger. It's fascinating to watch, the way she takes it, layer by layer, and pushes it down. It makes me want to see it expressed, makes me want to push her buttons until she explodes, and unleashes it.

She gets busy then, getting back to her feet in a smooth, easy motion. She moves around to the wall where the sunlight is starting to creep down it. I watch as she sinks hand-lengths of steel into small holes in the stones, creating a grid of spikes. She takes a pile of the dripping raw serpent meat, and start spiking it to the wall, to dry in the heat of the yellow sun. Then she moves close again, my eyes following her the entire time.

She starts humming softly as she begins to unstack rocks from her cache. I lace my fingers behind my head, bend my good knee to get comfortable. Watching her work is nice. She has more curves than most of the hard mercenary women I've known, but she at least matches them for muscle. Her life is hard because she wants it to be, not because it has to be. I can't imagine any normal person wanting what she's doing.

She finally gets to the bottom of the cache, and pulls out a pair of already dried strips, from some of the smaller serpents she's killed. She brings them both over to me, and holds them out.

"You need to eat. And I need to record a check-in." Instead of grabbing the food, I grab her arm again. "Don't worry," she assures me, somehow knowing what I was going to ask before I did. "I won't include anything about tall, dark Riddick coming to my rescue. That'd violate my contract."

She smirks, and drops the meat into my open hand. When I release her, she heads back to the cache, retrieving the little recording unit from the man-made cave. She doesn't go far, just to the other end of the camp, just out of sight behind the lowered end of the leaning roof.


	6. Chapter 6

**Mnemosyne**

Six solars, or seven? I've lost count. The extra long night, the unexpected sun set, it's screwed with my sense of time. And now, I don't only have myself to worry about. Gruesome, back there, Riddick, can't move and he won't tell me if he's got a ship nearby. A medpack would do us wonders right now. The little red light on my recorder is blinking, a sure sign that I'm late. I rub my jaw and reach for the button, but the sight of my own hand stops me. I'm covered in blood, both the ouroboros' and Riddick's. I should wash up, but I'm not going to. I'm already composing the fibs in my head, as I flip the toggle that sets the recorder on.

"Day seven, I think. Who knows really. I experienced nightfall for the first time, a completely unexpected and unprepared for phenomenon. This is supposed to be a synchronous orbit, but I'm willing to bet that the comet's purge resulted in this variation. Now my challenge is to figure out the cycle, so I can prepare for the next one.

"I certainly don't feel alone here. There are these reptiles, I've been calling them ouroboros, because their mouths are at least a third of their length. Their existence here is further proof of my theory that anything living deep enough underground can survive. So it may behoove new settlements to create fallout shelters in the threat of continued genocides.

"But, enough talking. I have to finish butchering my next meal. Barring any more random night-times, I'll be back in one solar cycle with more! Nim Grant, signing off!"

Flipping the switch off again, I make a sour face at the dead camera. From around the corner of the slab I hear slow, loud applause start. Great, I knew I should have gone farther off. Tucking the device under my arm, I step back out into the open, only to see amusement written all over Riddick's face.

"Bravo! Bravo! Do I get an encore performance? Or do you only do the monkey dance for Company?"

Two can play at that growling game he likes, so I growl at him. The goggles make him hard to read, masking the natural expressiveness of the eyes. But his lips twist into a wry grin. He's testing me, looking for buttons to push, and by giving him that growl, I've acknowledged that my situation is a prickly one. I snatch up the makeshift bag, and sling it over my shoulder. Checking to make sure I still have the blade he gave me during the night, I leave the shelter without explanation.

"Hey! Hey!" He calls out after me. "Where you goin'? We are just getting to know each other!"

There is a moment that every instinct I have is telling me to run: to run far and fast and not look back. But he's practically helpless, immobile until I can figure out how to fashion a crutch. I think he knows I stop just outside the taller wall. Because I can hear the smile creeping into his voice when he starts calling out to me again.

"Nim? I'd rather look at a beautiful woman than these walls.."

I don't know what irritates me more, the fact that he seems desperate to have company, or the fact that he called me beautiful. But the frustration boils over, I have no task to channel it into, no way to push it aside. I make it back to the entrance in three steps, and I cross the camp with enough intensity that it wipes the grin from his face.

"If you insist on continuing to antagonize me, then you can pull yourself to your goddamned good leg and hop your ass back on over to whatever dropped you here. I refuse to let you piss me off; I refuse to be twisted into making a mistake that's going to cost either of us our lives, understand?"

He's silent for a few moments, seriously contemplating me. His hands go to his goggles, and slowly he pushes them up to his forehead. For a moment he squints, as if the growing dawn's light actually causes him pain. "I hear you. Didn't mean it that way. Just wonderin' how the Company got a fine-spirited filly like yourself jumping through their hoops."

"Then ask." My hands are on my hips by now. I don't take bullying, or intimidation. I learned how to be strong at an early age. Surviving a Necromonger invasion does that.

He cocks his head at me, being just as unreadable without the goggles. In a slow motion, he pulls them back down to cover his eyes, and reaches out to pat the ground beside himself. "Let's talk. You and me."

I venture closer, but I'm not feeling trusting anymore. That ship sailed when I figured out he didn't want his presence here known. I don't have the heart to tell him that the connection isn't live. When I don't get any closer, he sighs.

"Have it your way." With a shrug, he stretches out again, tucking his hands behind his head as he leans back against the rubble. "Why the Company? What'd they get you for?"

He must have first-hand experience. He knows that the Company never does anything for anyone out of the goodness of the Boards heart. With that one question, he knew I had a criminal past, just like I knew he did. I stall for as long as I can, moving slowly across the camp until I can lean against the lower part of the caved in wall. It's my concession. I won't sit near him, but I'll get this close. He watches me the entire way, giving me the feeling that he's enjoying the view. Only when I tug on the ripped hem of my shirt, trying in vain to cover my stomach, does he free me from his gaze.

"I was twelve when I saw my father for the last time. He always told me that the most important thing in life was _to stand against the tides of humanity_. I stood a little too long, and a little too tall. Taking a stand against the established system is never a good idea." I shift again, finally unslinging the wire-strapped bag from my shoulder. It falls shapeless at my feet. "Instead of getting dumped off at the nearest slam, the Company scooped me up, nabbed my 'radical' ideas, then decided to keep me out of the way, doing this." I gesture around at the planetside.

I sense him nod, the kind of silent acknowledgment that can only come after a revelation like that. For a few moments, we're both silent, a development that I'm perfectly fine coping with. I glance down to find him watching me again, and I sigh, dropping to a crouch.

"Look," I tell him. "We're in a situation here. You have to trust me, and I have to trust you. There's no two ways about it. If you had a ship, you'd have told me by now, so we'd have a medpack. Hell, we'd probably be off this rock by now. But you're an ex-con, and I'm a Company whore, so I know how this plays out..."

"Oh, you do, do you?" A corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. "Just an ex-con, huh? You have no idea who I am, do you?"

The back of my neck prickles, the tiny hairs raising in alarm, and again, that instinct to run rises in my gorge. Very slowly, I shake my head, hoping that he'll illuminate my ignorance. I refuse to admit aloud that I'm only awake for a month at a time, that when I'm finished testing this planet for re-habitation, I'll go right back into a cryo-tube until they find a new place for me to survive.

Instead of answering, Riddick just starts to chuckle, a low, dry sound that sends chills up my spine. This time, when I snatch the bag up, and stalk out of the camp, no amount of him calling after me brings me back.


	7. Chapter 7

**Riddick**

Mnemosyne is gone for hours this time. It's exactly what I didn't want to happen. I should be cool and comfortable in the shade here, but I'm already alternating between chills and overheating. I can feel my heartbeat in my leg, even though I know that it shouldn't hurt that much. As time wears on, I'm fighting to cling to consciousness, zoning in and out of my predicament. That little Company spitfire still hasn't come back. If my lights go out without protection around, I'm surely going to end up snake-bait. But on the other hand, if I fight to stay awake, I'm forcing my body to work harder to repair itself. I should already be healing... she's given me food, and rest... this just isn't right.

Finally, I give up.

I have to. I'm just doing myself harm otherwise. My head rolls forward, and for a few moments, darkness overtakes me.

But then, I start to dream... I know it's a dream, because I'm sitting on the Necromonger throne again. Vaako's voice is there, like dripping poison in my ear, but I can't hear the words he's speaking. Everything is muted, slow-motion, because among the throngs of the quasi-dead, I see her.

"KYRA!" Her name rips from me before I can stop myself. I'm up from the throne, my hand wrapped around Vaako's neck when everything lurches with a sickening twist. My stomach rolls, and suddenly, where Vaako once stood, eyes bulging, gnashes a bioraptor, all teeth and piss, trying to get to my face.

I hear voices in the darkness as I grapple with the bioraptor. Jack, Imam... Fry. No one else got in after them. I refused to get attached to anyone, or anything. But this isn't how it ended on that little planet, we escaped... I didn't drag Fry back to the skiff to find Imam and Jack both gone, blood splattered all over the metal. I didn't bolt into the rain with a death wish..

And my legs certainly didn't give out beneath me.

My mind shifts again, mud and rain and dirt being replaced with the sterile pristine floor of the Basilica, stained only by the growing pool of Kyra's blood. My Kyra, my Jack... the kid who'd never judged me. I crawl, dragging myself inch by inch across the floor, desperately needing to get to her..

And then a new voice, shouting my name through the fog. I'm confused for a moment, my hand is so close to Kyra's, so close to touching her, and dragging her into my arms. I pick my head up slightly, trying to focus, trying to find the new voice, and suddenly, I'm dragged backward.

"NO!" My fingers dig into the metal, causing it to crumble into sand in my grip. I fight forward, dragging myself an inch or two. One leg responds, kicking backward, striking solid flesh. As soon as I'm free, I'm pushing forward with that leg, dragging my other, some dim part of my brain telling me that I'm broken... shattered...

Kyra's still there, her bright blue eyes pleading, her fingers outstretched toward mine. In one final moment, I lunge forward. And my fingers close on nothing.

Like a fire, it comes: the rage. Boiling up inside me, ripping through the vestiges of rational thought and destroying them like strips of paper, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. I'm angry at everything, at my body for betraying me, at Kyra for leaving me, at Fry for her sacrifice, at Imam for his patience. I'm about to unleash it; I'm about to turn on whatever had stopped me from getting to Kyra in time, when my vision blossoms with scarlet. The crumbling metal of the Basilica shatters to reveal a wasteland of dry, red sand, for just a moment before true darkness takes me.

Everything else is splashes of images.

… Mnemosyne, her hair tied back with wire, bent over my leg.

… Her pacing back and forth, shoulders hunched in frightened defeat.

… Cool water down a parched throat.

… That voice, always nearby, talking softly into the metal box.

… The need to tear and rip and fight this impossible enemy.

And finally, darkness. The kind of darkness that only I can see in. My thoughts are startlingly clear: the knowledge of the planet, the situation, and the woman who has been selflessly taking care of me. The stone slab is above me, and the entrance is covered by what looks to be a portion of the skin of the big serpent. My head rests on something soft, something delicious...

I turn slightly, taking a deep breath. I feel like I could bathe in her scent and die happy. Women, of all creatures, smell the best, and just the right mixture of dirt and sweat and _female_ clings to Mnemosyne's skin. My head lays in her lap, one of her hands resting lightly on my chest. She's asleep; her long, slow measured breathing doesn't change when I indulge the desire to nuzzle closer.

And touch, I have to. I find her hand with mine, and I run my fingers as far up her arm as I can. Her skin is so soft, smooth beneath my hand. I feel her heartbeat quicken, I feel the way I push into her dreams with nothing but a touch. I drag my fingers back down her arm, and beneath my head, her thigh quivers. I'm about to push my luck, when in a sharp breath, she's suddenly awake. Her hand jerks away from me like I'm repulsive. Her body is sending me other messages though. In the dark, I know she can't see me. Instead, her hand hesitantly returns to my chest, moving upward until she cups my chin.

She presses a palm to my cheek, and runs the other fingers overt the crown of my head. I choose that moment to make a sound, a low rumble of pleasure deep in my chest. She starts a little, before exhaling a sigh of relief.

"The worst is over," she whispers. Her relaxation is palpable, taking a sour edge off her scent.

It takes a few tries to make any sound louder than the rumble. "How long?" I sound terrible, even to myself.

"Fifteen solars. This is the third night." That hand resting on the crown of my head, hasn't stopped moving, tracing lazy little circles in the fuzz stubble that's grown. It's not entirely unpleasant, and despite myself I let my eyes drift shut again. "You're going to have a hell of a scar, Riddick."

"What?"

"Happened? Infection. Deep tissue... I.." Her hand stalls, for just a moment, before going back to tracing those lazy swirls. "I honestly didn't think you'd make it. I've never seen anyone heal like you do."

I can't help but chuckle, and it comes out painfully, a harsh rasping noise. Almost as quickly as I start, her hand slides from the side of my face, to cover my mouth. Concern wrinkles her brow, and I fall silent with her. Outside the curtain comes a rattling hiss. We wait, in tense silence, but after a few moments, the noise stops, and the soft slither of scales against sand moves away. Reaching up, I take her hand in mine, prying it away from my mouth. But before I can draw breath, she's already whispering the explanation.

"They overran me the first night... trying to get to you. But the big one's skin is like a repellant. They won't get close enough to touch it, so we're safe as we can be in here."

"The cycle?"

"Five standard solars of light, one standard night. The planet has a drunken wobble." She pauses, giving my hand a squeeze. I didn't realize I was still holding onto her, so once her gesture is done, I let my fingers slide away. "They come to collect me in six days, Riddick."

* * *

Author's Note: Reviews? Anyone? Is it really that bad? Or is there just no real opinion developed yet? Pace picks up in the next chapter or two, I promise! ~A.S.


	8. Chapter 8

**Mnemosyne**

They.

It's like a curse word. When dawn finally rolls around, the weird kind of causal intimacy of the shelter I'd created disappears. He's back to watching me with hungry eyes, following my every move as I reconstruct the small piles of rocks I use as my early warning system. I feel like he has something to say, but he's refusing to broach the subject. My clock is ticking down. Soon, I'll be off this dust-bowl planet, away from the ouroboros, and him. He still won't tell me if he's got a ship planetside, or if he's just as stranded as I am.

I'm getting frustrated. I've never dreaded a pick-up so much in my life. I've never wanted to hit someone so damned hard in my life either. He hasn't been grateful one second for what I've done. Not even an acknowledgment. But I've never seen anyone heal so fast. A break like that should have him grounded for months at least, but he's making himself a walking stick on the other side of camp. One of the reinforced steel bars from the rubble, and the vertebrae from one of the middle-sized ouroboros. I feel like I should be surprised, as he proves himself to be creative. But I'm really not.

I'm starting to worry.

He looks up from his work, and gestures me over. I've been staring at him; he probably felt me watching. He holds his hand out in that wordlessly universal gesture of help-me-up. I eye his leg dubiously. I mean, just because the three-inch hole is starting to fill in with new, puckered scar tissue, doesn't mean that the bone beneath is healing. When I don't take his hand, he growls, and starts levering himself off the ground with the spinal-decorated pole, and his arm.

I swear under my breath, and grab his arm, wedging myself under his shoulder and helping him pick his bulk off the ground. I stay there, his arm draped over my shoulders, mine tucked around his waist, and holding onto his belt loop on the other side, while he tests his weight on his leg.

I wait for him to buckle, to go down. I listen for the snap of bone and flesh. But it doesn't happen. Instead, he tries for what counts as casual conversation for him, all the while increasing the amount of weight he's putting on that leg.

"So, this pick up. Tell me how it goes down."

I rub my nose, glancing up at him. He's not looking anywhere near me, at least, I don't think he is. Those damned goggles hide everything. "Usually they send a dropship. Autopilot. Usually it's a contracted Merc crew. I get a longwave debrief, upload the journal, and I'm usually back into cryo for the jump to Core." I shrug, under the weight of his arm.

"Upload the journal?"

Oh, yeah, I'm not supposed to tell him that. I can feel his eyes boring into me as I look away. "Yeah. The recorder is a hardfile. The only way it transmits is if something happens to me." I hold up my wrist, showing him the face of the watch. It has a read-out showing my heart rate and respiration. "Usually, by the time I get back to Core, they've already waved it out to the people, and I've got interviews to do. I fucking hate that part." I sigh softly, shaking my head. Wedging a hand beneath his bicep, I lift his arm off my shoulders. It's not like he's leaning on me anyway. Stepping out away from him, I turn back. "The Necromongers have destroyed eight planets, all told. This is my fifth... three more, and I'm going to be free of the Company."

He reaches out and grabs my wrist, turning the face of the instrument out towards him. "What if I told you, I could get you free from the Company right now?"

"I wouldn't believe you."

"Why not?" That hint of a smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

"Because you don't strike me as a man to do anything out of the goodness of his heart."

He shifts the crutch to his bad side, tucking it under his arm where I had been standing a moment ago. His hand then moves to cover his heart, and I swear he looks offended that I would think that. "What if I could give you the opportunity for revenge? The chance to strike back at the Necromongers?"

Things are starting to make sense now. I tilt my head at him slightly, and decide that it's time to play my hand. "They took Kyra from you, didn't they?"

It happens so fast. The vertebrae clatter as they hit the ground, and suddenly, my feet aren't touching anything. His fists are wrapped in the last vestiges of my shirt, and he's hauled me bodily off the ground.

"Where'd you hear that name?" Each word is punctuated by a shake. His voice, already so deep, roughed and strained by anger. "WHERE?"

I'm not scared of him in this moment. I'm scared he's going to drop me, yes, or worse, fling me into a wall. But of him, no. Because I recognize what's fueling that anger: pain. I lay my hands on top of his fists, and tell him the absolute truth.

"You called out for her while you were feverish." I stare him straight in the goggles, hoping that he's meeting my eyes, praying that he's hearing the truth. "You talked in your sleep. You even hit me once or twice."

Those corded muscles of his biceps are quivering, and inch by inch, I'm being lowered, until my tiptoes hit the ground. As I feel his fingers uncurl, I move my hands, raising them palm forward until he's fully released me. He's still quivering, still on the edge. And he growls at me.

"I'm going to kill every last one of those fucks. I'm giving you the chance to stop _this_ once and for all." He gestures around at the wasteland, his words growling and low. "I know a surefire way off this rock, into a ship of our own. If you have the balls to do this."

I'm waiting for the punch line. "Ripping the monitor off won't do a thing. It's on a feed from this." I pull aside the collar of my shirt, tapping on a small scar at the spot where my neck and collarbone meet. "So unless you plan on killing me..."

I trail off at the sight of the grin that starts to creep over his face. It's slow, it's dangerous, and it's giving me chills. He reaches forward, pushing my hair away from my shoulder, and he lets his fingers trail over that scar. My throat closes up on me, and my heart starts racing. Those fingers slide up my neck, tracing along my jaw.

"So what do you say, Nim? You got the balls?"

He knows exactly what he's doing to me; it's written all over that shit-eating grin of his. I've unconsciously tipped my head back, giving him my throat, as his fingers have traced along my jawline. What bad could come if I just submitted to him, anyway? If I took that one step forward, and pressed myself against his chest? How bad could he really be? I close my eyes, trying to swallow the lump that's formed in my throat.

Instead, I remember his chuckle, the subtle hint that he was more than just an average ex-con. I plant my hands on his chest, and give him a hard shove backwards. He takes a double-step, limping and favoring his leg badly, but it puts much needed distance between us. I press a hand against my stomach, trying to untie the knots he makes there, while pointing at him with the other hand.

"What makes you think killing me is going to get you a ship? And how the fuck am I supposed to get payback if I'm _dead _?"

"I'll bring you back. I promise." At least the grin has faded, and there's a sense of somber truth there. "You saved my life. I'll save yours. And don't you worry, they'll come for me."

I chew my lower lip, retracting the accusing hand, and using it to cover my throat protectively. I've never had an option like this, presented to me. Freedom, for the price of my life? Revenge, maybe finding out if my mother is still alive, facing the Necromongers? Riddick seems to think I should know who he is. He also seems to think that I'm valuable to the Company somehow.

"Fuck." I swear under my breath first, turning my back on Riddick for a moment while I wrestle with this. Do I trust him? Do I not? Is he really going to bring me back from death? "Fuck!" That swear is louder, as I rake my hands through my hair, and kick at a chunk of rubble.

By the time I round back on him, he's retrieved his makeshift crutch, and is leaning on it again.

"Fine! Fine.. what do you need me to do?"


	9. Chapter 9

**Riddick**

I had to rough her up. I didn't want to, but this has to look good. It has to look real. And I needed her to fear me. We're all set up for the final act. I tried hard not to bruise her pretty face, but she's bleeding from a split lip, and there's a jagged cut above her brow from a rock. I can't, and won't apologize for any of this. She's a victim in all of this. Mnemosyne isn't looking at me, she isn't watching me for once. She's on her knees in the middle of her camp, laboring to breathe. I've got the recorder in my hand, turning it this way and that, until I find the lens, and tap on it with a finger.

"This thing on? Look, it's nice of you guys to send me a little piece of ass once in a while, but really? Strand her here, with no way off world? That's just cruel. So here's what I think. You send me a ship, in good working order, and I'll let you all live. How's that?"

I set the recorder on the wall, making sure it points towards Nim. I walk slow, hiding the limp in my gait. Soon enough, I won't even be showing that little sign of weakness, but for now, slow movements, careful placement of my feet. I don't want to go rebreaking that. The camera stays on me, making sure to give anyone who sees this enough time to identify my face, my voice.

"Way I understand it, this thing doesn't transmit unless she's dead. Sad. Such a pretty face." Leaning down, I tuck my fingers under her chin, and force her to look up at me. She tries to pull away, but I grab a hold of her jaw. "Let's put this message in the mail, hm, sweetheart?"

I keep us in profile to the camera. So they can see there's nothing else going on here. One of my hands wraps easily around her throat, and those jungle-colored eyes of her widen, tearful and scared. I grind my teeth, and squeeze, closing my hand around her, feeling the pulse of her life under my fingers. The monitor around her wrist starts to beep softly, keeping time with the slowing of her pulse.

Her survival instinct kicks in, and she starts clawing at me, scratching at my hands with her nails, reaching futilely for my face and eyes. She hits me with her fists, desperate. Her fear is a like a fog, clinging to her, smelling sharp and acrid, oddly like burning flesh. The monitor on her wrist starts beeping wildly, just as I feel the weak flutters of her pulse beneath my hands. I keep holding on, until her lips start to turn blue, and the monitor is screaming a single, blaring death note.

I let her go, panting heavily, my fingers and hands tingling with the sudden lack of pressure. I crouch down, yanking the monitor from her wrist, before dropping it and crushing it beneath my heel. The recorder is next, even though she assured me that it would end the record itself and transmit as soon as her heart stopped. I check it, I spin it to face the wall, and then I limp-hop back to her side.

Rolling Nim on her back, I get hit with the full weight of what I've done. She's an innocent in all this. A victim of circumstance, and placement. I gave her my word that I wouldn't let her die, and I'm not about to go back on that promise. She'll hate me later for it, but I take a knife to her shirt, and that stretchy bra beneath. I've seen this done a thousand times, but my hands are shaking as I feel down her breastbone for the right spot.

I shake myself and start again, this time, easily laying the heel of my hand over her heart. I count, hard and fast, pushing so hard that I think I'll break her ribs. I pause, and breathe for her, pushing air into her lungs. Dimly, in the back of my head, I know this isn't how I want to taste her, not dead.

"Breathe, woman, breathe." I order it of her. I keep repeating the cycle, compressions and breaths, demanding of her between every one of them. "Breathe, dammit!"

She's going to make a liar out of me. She's going to die, and I can't keep my word. I lose track of how long I'm at this, each cycle getting a little more violent, each time I lay my mouth over hers longer. Finally, the rage boils forth, and I slap her, hard. Grabbing her by the shoulders, I lift her bodily into my lap; pressing my forehead against hers, I scream wordlessly into her face.

It's happening again. It feels like Kyra all over. This was my idea. This was my plan. She trusted me.

I fold myself over her, clinging to the anger and the rage. I lay my palm against her breastbone again, and start pushing. I don't care if she's not laying down, I don't care if her head is tipped back over my arm. I don't care that this isn't the right way. I care about Nim taking a breath on her goddamned own.

I know I should give up. I stop trying to coax her heart to beat, I just keep my hand there, in the soft crater between her breasts. I lean down to the neck, to breathe the scent of her skin one last time. But there's a flutter beneath my hand, a soft rattle in her throat. I straighten up, loosening my grip, and I start gently rubbing her chest.

"That's it... give me a breath, c'mon, girl." If willing her to inhale would just work, I'd be a happy man. But no matter how much I want it, she's struggling. Her lungs are trying to work, her throat spasms as she tries to breathe. It feels like an eternity, that she gasps and coughs, but finally, finally, she takes a huge gulp of air.

Those rainforest eyes roll around in her head a few times, before coming to focus on me. I open my mouth to tell her that it worked, when she unleashes a scream that turns my insides cold. Her palms hit my chest, and she's pushing, shoving and scrambling to get away from me. I don't stop her. I loosen my grip so she can get away. I don't blame her in the least. Not with the livid bruises starting to purple around her throat. She tries to cover herself, crossing her arms over her breasts. It's a shame really. She somehow manages to be lean, and curvy at the same time. No words are offered from either of us, instead I just strip out of my tank, and leave it there on the ground for her.

She'll come find me when she's ready.


	10. Chapter 10

**Mnemosyne**

It hurts to swallow; it hurts to breathe. It hurts to sit here surrounded by his smell. But either this, or I sit here half-naked, scared that he's going to cross the camp and finish the job. The tiny rational voice that still lives inside my head keeps spewing a mantra about how I signed up for this, how I knew that he planned to kill me from the beginning. But the irrational side of me is far too strong to master, the fear sitting heavy and hard in my stomach every time I even glance in his direction. What keeps me rooted to this spot when all i want to do is run? This is stupid: I have no reason to be frightened of him. He kept his promise, bringing me back from the brink of darkness. I won't tell him that I thought I heard my father calling to me: that I felt his presence in the dark, and it made me feel okay about dying. The less Riddick knows about my inner workings, the better, I think. I won't let him manipulate me again. There we go, that's a vow I can stick to: if he needs to get his rocks off again, he can find someone else to victimize.

So there.

That finally gives me the strength to turn my back on him. Granted, he's sleeping away the intensity of the suns brightest time, beneath the protective overhang, while I've moved my makeshift sleeping roll as far away from him as I could, while still staying in camp. After all, this is the most defensible spot beneath the Icon, and it's close to the cistern. And I won't let him drive me out of my, albeit temporary, home. Besides, he thinks he'll get a reply to his taunt in a few hours, so I'm trying to keep half an eye on the sky.

I don't even make it ten minutes with my back turned. The unease prickles up my spine, like a hundred little needles. And I swing around to check on his location. My blood runs icy cold when I notice that his spot is empty. Instantly, I'm scrabbling to my feet, backing up until the wall is pressed comfortingly against me. Where'd he go? How the fuck does a man that big move so quietly? I'm frantically looking for him when I hear him call my name.

What choice do I have? As uneasy as it is having him around, not knowing where he is ultimately terrifying. So my choice is made for me. I grab his knife from my multi purpose fabric and curse myself for not having grabbed it first. It doesn't take long to find him. Around the side of the Icon, he's shielding his eyes against the suns and watching it descend. I carefully keep the knife down by my side, and I stop more than four steps behind him, eyes following the flight of the ship.

"It's landing in the field." I wince as I say it aloud: the field of dirt and rock where he'd killed me. He half-turns toward me, forcing me into a defensive half-step back. Automatically, my free hand goes to my throat. Behind his goggles, I just know those eyes flick to follow the motion. I swallow, and fight the urge to run. It's too much fear to just simply swallow, and standing here idle, I have no action to channel it into. So the fear just eats at me, gnawing away at my self-discipline.

He gestures listlessly with one of those big hands. "Ever stabbed someone?"

Struck mute by an imagined threat in his deep voice, I simply shake my head negatively. A beat later, he sighs.

"I'll take care of the mercs. Just prep the ship while I distract them. "

Something that he insinuates with the word 'distract' gives me shivers. I know the basics of what he wants. The mercs he's certain will follow him into the ridges. He knows I can't fly, even though I know the prep protocols. I can't get off the planet without him now. He comes toward me, and for every step he takes, my grip tightens on the knife. I silently beg him to stop, he finally does, but not before he's within arms-reach. Every inch of me is vibrating, just waiting for him to reach out for my neck again. Instead, the silence stretches forward. He nods a little, approvingly.

"Looks good on you." Muscles in his bare chest twitch, before he turns and disappears back around the Icon. I'm left stunned in the wake of his complement. That is, until my brain fires up, and I understand what it was about. I'm wearing his shirt: the thing had been nearly skin tight on him, but it hangs off my shoulders, tied in a knot at my waist, and exposes entirely too much skin for my likes. And it's his shirt.

I growl at empty air, ducking around the Icon with the intent to shout profanities in Riddick's direction. But he's already loping across the dust plains, nor staggering his step at all. I wondering just what he's planning; I can see the sand rolling behind him, ouroboros following his every step.

Now comes the waiting game. I circle around the Icon again, until I come to the perfect place to hide and watch. Crouched among the ruins, I hear the rapid spatter of gunfire, voices shouting. I count five, six, seven bodies moving out in formation, coming toward the ruins, instead of the ridges. Ouroboros get two of them; Riddick had left them in his wake, effectively booby trapping the distance between my position and the dust fields.

The five remaining reroute, skirting the ruins, coming within a handful of yards of where I hide. From where I lay, wedged beneath fallen debris, I can see my face reflected in the shine of their Company-issue boots. And minutes later, on silent cat-feet, comes Riddick in their wake. He pauses when he draws even with me, and crouches to peer into my hidey hole.

"Go."

In a single word, he spurs me into action. I slide out of the hole on my stomach, and pull myself to my feet, ignoring Riddick's offered hand of assistance. I check to make sure the strips of Mommy Ouroboros skin are still secure around my wrists and waist, and I unsheathe the blade from my boot. I go to take a step when Riddick reaches out and catches my arm.

Automatically, my fist clenches, and my throat closes up. My stomach spins into a knot of fear again, but this time, I have something to channel that into. When I glance over my shoulder to look at him, there's a tightness to the corners of his mouth, a crease in his brow above the goggles. Is he concerned? When he doesn't say a thing, I jerk my arm free of his grip.

_I'm not afraid of you. I won't be afraid of you._ He still doesn't say anything, so I won't either. That knot of fear simmers in the pit of my stomach, festering into anger and rage. We both have jobs to do. When I turn away, I only assume he does too, because moments later, we're both on the move. When I glance back in his direction, he's creeping around the corner into this ruins beneath the Conquest Icon. Despite myself, despite my fear, I kind of hope he stays safe.

Just to be sure, I skirt the area where I saw the two mercs fall to the ouroboros. Even though the creatures will still be feasting, I'm not sure if I really want to witness how they eat with those enormous hinged jaws.

When I do finally get to the ship, it looks buttoned up tight. I'm really not surprised; most mercs are zealously paranoid about people trying to take their ship. A merc without a ship is a merc without income, after all. After a few tries, I find the external panel that controls the cargo bay doors, and I give a standard emergency open-code. Mechanisms whirr, bang, clash and groan, but the doors don't open. Instead, a tinny voice comes down over the speaker.

"_Got him already, Michaels? Hey... you're not Michaels!_"

Here goes nothing. I go from channeling my fear, to expressing it, as soon as I realize that I'm on cam.

"Please! You have to let me in! He's a madman! He'll try to kill me again!" I pound on the panel, pouring on my desperation. C'mon, merc, voiceprint me. I'm the one you're supposed to be picking up. "You can't leave me out here!"

"_Don't get yer panties in a bunch, missy, give me a second here.._" I bounce back and forth on my feet, trying to come up with a plan. All I have is a knife. Who knows what weaponry this guy is armed with. The cargo doors clunk again, before sliding open just wide enough for me to squeeze through. I keep running with the act, charging through the ship, until the merc left aboard meets me.

I know instantly why he was left behind. It's not his age, though he's probably pushing 50 years. It's the fact that one of his arms ends in a puckered, scarred stump just below the shoulder. In his only hand, he's holding a small pistol. He can't reach for me to comfort me, but he does at least smile, a scar pulling crookedly on his mouth.

"Miss Grant, right? You know, you're listed as dead. The Company's gonna be pretty happy they haven't lost you. Lets get you through protocols, and into the chamber..."

I shake my head, vehemently. "No.. no, I don't want to sleep.. I want to see that asshole fry for what he did to me!"

One-Arm finally puts his gun away. "Let me contact Michaels..." He reaches forward, curling his hand around my shoulder, and giving me a squeeze. "Maybe we can come to some kind of agreement, let you mutilate his body or something. But first, protocols..." His hand moves, sliding up my shoulder to take a firm grip on the back of my neck

That's the mistake. That touch, something that could be so innocent, is twisted and maligned in my brain. And I snap. No rational thought. No reason for doing so. I step forward into his bulk, bringing my knee hard up into his groin. As he doubles over, I grab his head with my left hand, driving my shoulder into his nose. Blood gushes over my skin, soaking down the borrowed shirt, but I find that I can't stop there.

One-Arm is rolling around on the desk in agony, his hand grasping for the pistol that he'd so conveniently holstered moments before. I stomp on his fingers, getting a yowl of pain from him. Through his broken nose, he's calling me all sorts of names. I'm seeing only red though. Suddenly, I'm gripping the knife high over my head with both hands, standing over him. His taunts turn to pleading, his one hand held up, broken fingers flopping uselessly. For a split second, in my minds eye, he's goggled, dark-skinned. And that's all it takes.

Over and over and over again, I plunge the knife into his chest. One of us is screaming; maybe it's both of us. But I keep at it, long after he's stopped struggling. In the silence absent his screams of pain, I hear myself sobbing. I raise my hands, for one more stab, one more point.. when my wrists are grabbed from behind, the knife pried from my white-knuckled hands.

"It's over, Nim... he's dead..."


	11. Chapter 11

**Riddick**

She's still curled up in the co-pilot's seat more than an hour after take-off. She hasn't moved, or said a word since I put her there. To go from _I-never-stabbed-a-man_ to _I-stabbed-one-more-than-twenty-times_ must be pretty taxing on the system. I haven't really set a course yet, except for as far from Cetarian One as we can get. I'm amazed at how women can get impossibly small when they feel threatened: her knees are pulled up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, and her eyes are latched onto the viewports. Or probably, more likely the stars beyond. Her fingers are idly picking at the dried blood covering her shoulder.

"You should get cleaned up." My voice surprises me as much as it surprises her. She flinches like I stung her. Those green eyes of her stare right through me. "Get your head on straight. Raid some of the mercs clothes."

She unfolds a little as I speak, straitening her spine. For a second, she looks like she's going to speak to me, and I wait, giving her my attention for as long as it takes. But ultimately, she keeps her silence, and slides out of the co-pilot's chair. I notice that she keeps as far from me as she can still. Her footsteps are soft as she retreats into the bowels of the ship, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

With a sigh, I punch up the navigation computer. Whatever is eating at her will out soon enough. No use sitting around wondering about it. What I need now is a planet that we can lay low on, someplace we can get restocked, and resupplied, where we can scrub the interior clean of merc-stink. There are some pretty populated planets in the next system out, but none of them seem to have what I'm looking for. I'm not sure how long I'm at this, but I smell her before I hear her.

Gone is the metallic scent of blood, and the acrid stench of fear, now she smells _clean_. I take a deep breath to savor it, wondering how much better she would smell with my face pressed up against her skin. I don't move from flying the ship, instead, giving her the time she needs to come to whatever choice she feels necessary.

Bare feet pad into the cockpit, and I glance to the side as she returns to her place in the co-pilot's seat. Huh. Clean, and free of the twisted tail she'd been wearing, I can finally tell that her hair is red. Not like, screaming fireball red, but dark almost-brown, red. I hadn't been expecting that. She's wearing clothes that she obviously lifted from the mercs supplies: patched pants cinched tight with a worn leather belt, and a tee-shirt that might have been green once upon a time but had faded to some yellowish dinge. She sits proper, not folding into herself this time. She rests her hands on the console, but carefully stays away from any buttons.

"I pretended he was you," her voice is still raw, clogged up with emotion. I raise a brow, and glance her way, waiting for her to finish her confession. "He was going to try to put me back into cryo. He was going to follow the protocols. He reached for me.. and..."

Her voice fails her, but I know what she means. I'd made her afraid of me, trying to save her. "Good. You'll need to do that more often. Tap into that fear." She can hear the smile in my voice, and when she looks in my direction, I give her that expression. "If you want to, you can hit me."

She doesn't know how to take that, I can tell. After a moment, she looks away, her hand going to the bruise ringing her throat. I turn my attention back to the navigation system, flipping my way through a few more unattractive planetary systems.

"You can't afford to be weak, Nim. The Necromongers will chew you up, and spit you out. Whatever it is you have an issue with, you need to get over it. I won't die because you can't handle it." There, that's what I'm looking for: a missionary planet, recently colonized. Religious nuts like that are always good for some free handouts. I punch the course into the nav, listening to the deafening silence. Once the autopilot is set, I push myself up from the chair, take one last look at Nim, and head for the bunks in the back.

"You should get some rest." those are the last words I share with her. Anything else is going to have to come from her. We've got eight standard solar's until we get to that little backwater planet. This is going to be a long week.

I don't sleep too well. Never have. Sleep is filled with half-visions, fitful dreams, and memories of the ones that I couldn't save. It's no surprise to me that I wake with a knife in my hand, raised and ready to defend against what may come. If I'm up, I might as well make the best of it. The interior of the ship is cool, and the hum of the heaters is the only sound I detect. Might as well find out what these mercs had in the way of foodstuffs.

I won't complain; there's tea. A little more digging reveals a stash of fresh fruits, hidden under a bowl marked with the Company's blocky _C_ logo. I heft an apple a few times, and figure that it'll do as a peace offering. So I start combing the ship again, a chipped mug of tea in one hand, and the apple in the other. Nim hasn't staked out a claim on any of the bunks, and eventually, I find her. She hasn't left the cockpit, still curled up in the co-pilot's seat.

She looks like she's dreaming of happier times. There's a little smile playing on the edge of her lips, the tiniest dimple appearing. I don't really want to wake her up, but she needs to eat something other than the snakes sh- we've been living on for the last twenty-something solars. I set the tea cup and the apple down beside me as I crouch. The urge is too strong, and I lean in toward her, closing my eyes and inhaling. I touch her, because I have to. I let my fingers trail along her arm. Her eyes flicker open, and then close again, but she never wakes.

Words would break this, so I stay silent. My fingers get to the hem of her shirt, but instead of sliding beneath it, I lay my hand on the shirt, just where her shoulder meets the collarbone. She shifts this time, her brow furrowing in her sleep, as she sinks deeper into the chair. I keep my fingers moving, brushing her jawline with a digit. I feel her pulse quicken, and I pull my hand back, as her eyes flick open this time, awake and aware.

And for the first time in days, there's no sick smell of fear. Despite myself, I'm grinning; she's already righting herself cautiously. I retrieve the apple, and hold it up for her. Faster than I expect her to be, having just woken up, she snatches the apple from my grasp and sinks her teeth immediately into it.

"Oooh, saints alive, this is delicious!" She wipes at the apple juice running down her chin, and I can't help but laugh. There is something kind of cute about her excitement over a piece of fruit. I think my peace offering has gone well.

"Care to join me for dinner?" I stand smoothly, and gesture out of the cockpit. "There's more where that came from."

For a moment, I think she's going to refuse me. She looks out the view windows, into the endless black of interstellar space. She has to eat, and I know she realizes that. There's a reason she survives. She's stronger than she realizes. After a few more heartbeats, she nods. That little smile turns into a full one, complete with dimples and a twinkle in her eyes. She gets up from the copilot's chair, this time swinging around so she can stand right beside me.

"On one condition."

There's always a catch with women. My grin fades, and I just stare at her expectantly.

"I want to know who you are."

I grunt softly. Fuck it. She'll find out soon enough anyway. "C'mon. Mess is this way."


	12. Chapter 12

**Mnemosyne**

This isn't even a meal. This is a feast. It feels like Riddick emptied out the entire contents of the mercenary's mess onto the square steel table. There are apples and pears, and oranges, and cherries. As well as the staples of any good ship: cans of corn, and beans, and hash. Riddick sets me down on one side, and leaves me there with the food. Silly man.

I'm already taking the whole bag of cherries by the time he returns with a data pad and a mug of tea. It's like heaven in a bag. I ignore the data pad for a few moments, while he circles around the table and grabs himself an orange. There's a little pile of cherry pits by my mug when he finally breaks the lip-smacking silence.

"Read."

I give in, and pick up the data pad. As it wakes up to my touch, the screen shows a rather familiar face. Riddick's profile. No.. not profile. I start skimming the information. It's his rap sheet. And the screen scrolls. There's a list of slams around the universe, some I've heard of, some I haven't. Single-max, double-max, triple-max, all places he's escaped from. Names... so many names. At the bottom of the list of the wanted-fors, comes the psyche eval. I'm familiar with these, at least a little. The Company did one on me before my first planetary survival, supposedly to see if I had the mental fortitude to actually complete it.

Riddick's is simple, and concise. But words jump out at me: _sociopath_ and _murderer;_ _unstable_ and _aggressive._

I don't lower the data pad, but I snake a hand out for more cherries. My eyes climb over the rim of the reader, to study Riddick. He's moved on from the orange, to an apple, calmly slicing off bite-sized pieces with one of his many knives. He's kept the lights in the mess on low, so his goggles are tossed off to one side, but those silvered reflective eyes flick up to meet mine. He's waiting for some kind of reaction, but I just simply put the data pad to one side.

"The mercs from this ship, how many of them are dead?"

"Just the three."

"So, the other five?"

"Stranded." His features twist into a mirthless grin.

I glance at the data pad again, before reaching out to push it a little further away. It's a gesture of disbelief. I choose to believe what I see, and experience, over what others tell me I should see. I probably should feel threatened by him; Riddick's a big man. He's no pushover, and he's certainly hard to read. But the center has given. I can't be angry, or scared of him forever, because he did what he said he would do. If Riddick wasn't a man of his word, I wouldn't be sitting here.

"So what did they do to you?" His eyes flick to the data pad, and I take the momentary silence as an opportunity to test Riddick's tea skills. My fingers are stained red from the cherries, and though I feel like it should give me momentary pause, I feel surprisingly better about the stabbing of One-Arm. Before he can answer my first question, I find another falling from my lips. "Does it always feel that good? To kill?"

"So," he chuckles as he leans forward. "Killing that merc made you feel good? And here I thought you pretended he was me."

"I did." It's so much easier to say it now. "But... it's strange. I'm – I just feel -"

"Triumphant. You're here, on this ship, and he's not. You're not happy he's dead. You're happy because you're _not._" There's the ring of experience in his voice, the solid understanding of what he's talking about. "And for the record... they wouldn't leave me alone. Not even after I asked nicely."

My appetite is turning sour, but the lure of the fruit is just too much. I abandon my cherries and reach across the spread for an orange. Riddick moves when I do, grabbing my hand before I can snag my food and retreat. The uniqueness of his eyes keeps me transfixed, but the strength of his grip gets my pulse racing.

"Are you still afraid of me?"

It's such a simple question he poses, one with a complex set of answers. I can't give him a simple yes or no at the moment, so I just remain, latched onto, sucked into his eyes. Finally, I twist my arm a little, spurring him into releasing me. The orange comes away with me.

"I suppose, in a way." I drop my eyes to the orange peel as I talk, making my hands busy. "I don't think you'll hurt me.. not again. I see the way you look at me. But I'm not sure what you're capable of. At least when it's me versus a planet, I know the planet's trying to kill me."

He doesn't crack a smile, even though I tried to make it come across as a joke. Instead, he rises from the table, one smooth leonine motion.

"At least we have that in common." His hand unerringly finds the strap of his goggles. "I don't know what you're capable of either. We have eight days, Nim. You need to prove to me that you can, and will still survive the Necromongers."

"And if I can't?"

"Then I leave you at Outpost 89."

I draw breath to ask him another question, and his knife flies through the air to impale an apple with a heavy thunk. He draws a second knife, heavier and thicker than the first. It dances over his knuckles. "Your first challenge: Find me." With that, he slams the hilt of the blade into the wall, causing a shower of sparks, for a split second, I'm blinded, and when I look back up, he's just gone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Riddick**

Neither of us want to hit cryosleep. She hasn't given me an exact reason why. Maybe she's like me, maybe part of her stays awake. That same instinct to survive that drove her to kill a man, will drive her to find me. I know what she's thinking: it's a ship, how hard can it be? But _just a ship_ is a playground to me. So many dark recesses, so many places to hide. Best part is, I keep moving, if she gets too close, I move soundlessly to the next area. When she thinks she has all the exits covered, I use conduit piping to sneak across the ceiling.

The best part is dropping little clues here and there, like bread crumbs for her to follow. I let this carry on for an hour or two at best. I do everything in my power to piss her off without revealing myself. I want the scent of her rage to fill up this ship. I'd rather surround myself with _her_ than the unwashed merc-stench.

She comes wonderfully close a couple of times, within seconds of spotting me as I duck out of the cockpit and she comes running around the corner. She picks up the steaming cup of tea that I left there, and then takes a casual sip. I peek out from my space between two bulkheads, to watch her shoulders tighten, to catch the hot, simmering scent of her anger. In one smooth motion, she throws the full cup against the decking and spins on her heel, forcing me to retreat back into my space. One step, two steps, she comes to a stop completely even with me.

For a moment, I think she's about to reach into the shadows here, and pull me out. And I relish it, just waiting for the final moments of this chase. She knows what she's feeling; she knows I'm watching her. The fun begins when she figures out _where_ I am. But she doesn't trust her own instincts: her eyes skim over the dark space that I've wedged myself into. She doesn't see me.

Then she does something _cute_: she stomps her feet in frustration. Since she got herself cleaned up, she hasn't worn shoes. It's made her pretty sneaky about the ship, but that stomp, and the rattling of the decking beneath her, make her skitter to one side slightly. I tip my head back against the bulkhead, and swallow my chuckles. I promise myself, that I'll get to smell her skin before we reach Outpost 89.

When she starts walking down the corridor, I give her a few minutes head start, before I start following. She completely skirts the mess, but I pause and scoop up the small pile of cherry pits that she'd left behind. When Nim finally comes to a stop, she's in the cargo bay. For a ship this size, it's pretty standard. There's space for hovercycles, or maybe even a cargo barge, but none of that is actually in here. Much of the space is empty, except for the crates and containers stacked against the port wall, and the single, ominous cryotube on the starboard wall.

I don't know if I should be concerned, or I should cheer her on, as she retrieves a crowbar from the pile of boxes, and starts walking over toward the cryotube. I think she's trying to draw me out. Or she's acting on directionless anger. Just when I think she's going to break the entire thing to pieces, she cracks the hinges, and levers up the lid. She bends in half to reach down inside the chamber. I take my opportunity and pad swiftly and silently across the cargo bay. At the last second, I crouch down behind the boxes, not catching a glimpse of what she came out of the chamber with. There's silence in the cargo bay.

I straighten slightly from my crouch to see what she's doing, but Nim is gone. The crowbar, and whatever device she took from inside the 'tube are laying in the center of the deck. Hmm. Well, this isn't good. I grab onto the cargo boxes and go to pull myself up. As soon as my fingers wrap over the top, I get stepped on. Not hard. Not savagely. Just enough to know I've been found. Those chilly bare toes are connected to that slim ankle. Her pants are cuffed halfway up her calves, and it takes everything I have not to reach up, and run my hand up that skin.

"Fucking wild goose found." She says lowly as she picks her foot up, and nudges me in the forehead with it. I can feel the way she's simmering, the way her anger sits just below the surface. And then I let the grin grow.

"Now..." I reach out, grab her heel, holding her steady for a moment. "You gotta make me bleed."

With that, I yank, hard, on that heel, pulling her feet out from beneath her, and landing her hard on her back, atop the crates. I hear the air rush out of her lungs in a huge whoosh, and for a moment, I leave her gasping for air. But only for a moment, I rise and fall forward, driving my elbow into her stomach.

"They won't stop. They won't let you breathe. Or get your weapon." I grab for her, but she's already slithering off the crates, dropping to her hands and knees while her body is wracked with coughs. When I grab her a second time, I come up with a fistful of hair, yanking her to her feet. _Dig deep, girl; show me you can do this_.

She hits me with a body shot. It's almost textbook, the way she pummels her fists into my ribs. She's had some kind of training, and enough raw talent to back it up. One shot catches me just right, just below the ribcage with just enough force to give me the same treatment I gave her. She knocks the wind out of me, but instead of floundering, I force myself to draw a deep breath. I have to let go of her hair though, which gives her enough freedom to crack the crown of her skull right into my chin.

I won't admit it aloud, but she got me seeing stars for a moment. I stagger back a few steps, wiping at my mouth. No blood yet. Nim stays doubled over, her hands on her knees, gasping for air. Inside, she's seething murderously; I can smell it all over her.

"Keep swinging!" I growl at her, charging back into the fray. She straightens long enough to swing for my face, but I catch her wrist. She tries the same with the other, and it's easy once more to catch that wrist as well. I back her right up against the wall, raising her hands over her head, and flattening her against it. She tries the same desperate move that every woman does at one point or another, but I deflect her knee with my own.

She's breathing hard; her brow furrows as I lift her up by her wrists, making sure her feet are cleared of the floor. I'm taking away her leverage, pinning her against the wall using nothing but the pressure of my chest and hips against hers. She's waiting for some kind of comment; some kind of reaction. But instead of speaking, I lower my face into the crook of her neck, right at the base of her jugular. And I breathe, deep and long.

I feel her own breathing hitch. Beneath the scent of _clean_ and _woman_, something new blossoms. Something I haven't smelled on her before: tart and sweet all at the same time. Against mine, her body moves a little, her back arching just barely. It's enough to make me groan, low, against her skin, my hands tightening on her wrists.

She stops moving when I squeeze, and she trembles right down to her heart. I pull my face away from her skin. This isn't what I want. I'm not what _she_ wants. I keep her pinned though, refusing the animal need to just take her, here and now.

"Riddick?" Her whisper is tiny, felt more than heard. It's enough to make me look at her. My mistake.

Our faces are centimeters apart. Before I can stop her, she's stretched her neck forward, and she's kissing me. She breaks my half-hearted control. There's something innocent in the close-lipped way she kissed me. Something I have to take with both my hands, and twist. I grind hard into her, releasing her wrists so I can reach down and grab her ass. Her arms fall naturally around my neck. There is nothing rational, or kind, about this. 

And that's when she bites down, sucking my lower lip between her teeth. I slam her back into the wall, planting my hands on either side of her waist. I taste blood in my mouth as she releases me, tipping her head back against the wall. The sight of the bruise, still yellowing, around her throat slingshots me back to reality, but it's the smile she gives me that threatens to yank me back into action.

"First blood." She whispers, her hands sliding up my neck to catch the strap of my goggles. Before she can get them off, I let her go, letting her slide back down the wall until her feet are on the decking. Her hands slide down my shoulders, until they rest against my chest. In one agonizing step, I pull away.

She's won this round.


	14. Chapter 14

**Mnemosyne**

"I'm leaving you on Outpost 89." Those are his first words to me when I find him once more. He's sprawled in the pilot's chair, swiveling back and forth slowly. I stall the words that had wanted to be said, my throat closing up for a moment while I process what he tells me. Wait, that's not what I wanted to talk about. This isn't how this moment is supposed to go. I had wanted to march right up to him, kiss him again, and finish what we started in the cargo bay.

"No!" My mind catches up to my mouth. It's as simple as that. When I refuse him, he looks up sharply: his brow drawn down, those silver eyes flashing in the dim-half light of the cockpit. I half expect him to come surging out of his seat; I want him to grab me by the arms, to back me up against the bulkhead again. But there's nothing from him except the seething fury super-charging the air between us. I wait for it to break. I wait for the violence. I can handle that better than I can the silence.

"You've proved nothing to me, girl. Except that you're stubborn." He growls the words at me, wearing that scowl and shaking his head. "And stupid. You will stay at the Outpost. You will catch a transport back to civilization. You _will not_ follow me."

"Like hell!" Screw this game. I break the unspoken boundaries, striding right up to where he sprawls in that chair. Before he can stand, I put my fingers into his chest, poking into the hard muscle. He flexes, moving his hands from hanging over the armrests, to gripping them. "You promised me the chance to get back at them. They took my mother. My father spent four years dragging me along system to system chasing them, hunting ghosts and rumors. I have spent the rest of my life trying to undo whatever it is they think they're doing! You are not about to dangle this opportunity in my face, and then yank it away, just because I don't live up to your standards!"

I can feel him growl beneath my fingers. I can feel the tension that ripples through his chest, as he grips the arms of the pilot's seat tightly. He leans forward, almost casually pushing my hand back with the action. "They will chew you up, and spit you out." He starts to stand, forcing me to drop my hand and take a step back from him.

He looms, straightening his back and pulling his shoulders back to suddenly seem much bigger and more intimidating than I remember him being before. I should probably be terrified of him. I know that's what he's going for. He's trying to scare me off. "They tried that once," I stick my chin out, planting my hands on my hips, and refusing to budge. "I'm still standing."

"I'm not letting you throw your life away."

"It's my life! Mine. I will throw it however I see fit, Riddick." It's not the smartest thing for me to get in his face like this. But I understand that fact a little too late. Because in the blink of an eye, I go from feeling in control, to being completely at his mercy. His hand wraps around my throat once again. Panic rises in me as I feel him lift me slowly off my feet. I pushed him too far, got him irrational. I scrabble at his fingers with mine, trying to pry his hand off my neck. When that doesn't work, I start kicking him.

_How dare he_! Self-preservation instinct switches to hot rage in an instant, and I catch him hard, in the center of the chest with my heel. That seems to work, as his hand loosens enough to let me catch a gulp of air. Again, I kick out with my feet, this time catching him in the stomach. He grunts, dropping his arm to balance himself as he takes a step back. I get my fingers between his and my skin, and I start prying, wedging my fingers into the space. I feel the tips of my toes touch the cold decking, and with salvation so near, I lash out one last time.

My heel this time catches him in the knee. I hear a sharp pop, and see pain finally register in his face. He drops me, and falls to one knee, clamping his hand over the one I just dislocated for him. I'm not fast enough to catch my balance as I fall, landing hard on my ass. I struggle and fight for breath, even as I watch him push his kneecap back into place, grinding his teeth against the pop of tendon and bone.

"You need me," I gasp as soon as I'm able. There's something savage and animal about the way he snaps his focus back to me. His jaw clenches, and he reaches for me. I pull my foot back out of his reach, crab-crawling backwards a few more feet. "You need me, and you don't even know it." I sound stronger, raw-voiced, but I'm gaining confidence.

"Hesta. Aquila. Kethlon. Cetarian One. Asylum. Tetragammon. Persephone. Discovery." It's almost a chant to me these days. The litany of systems that the Necromongers have destroyed, the people that they've wiped out. The first eight are always the easiest: those are the ones we know of, the ones who location hasn't been wiped from the universe. The rest are harder, because they are people who are extinct, races of humanity that will never walk in sunlight again. "Syve. Enzo Four. Furya. Dur-"

My voice shuts down, because he just lunges forward across the distance separating us. He grabs my shoulders, forcing me back, pinning me down beneath his bulk. The smart thing to do in this moment would be to freeze and let the events unfold. But I can't do that, I have to try to exert some kind of control in this moment, flattened out on my back with two hundred plus pounds of pure rage on my chest.

"What do you know? How do you know that name?" That's not rage shaking his voice; it's desperation. I haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, which of the twelve planets he means.

"Get off me, you giant oaf!" It's my turn to growl at him, twisting hard in his grip, banging my hip against his in an attempt to throw him off. It's enough of a struggle that he has to readjust his grip, giving me a split second to act.

My hand rockets upwards from the floor, and impacts his face so hard that my palm is left stinging. Riddick doesn't flinch. For a few long heartbeats, the world hits suspended animation: time slows to a crawl. Every little thing jumps into crystal-clear detail. I notice, for the first time, the stark contrast between the shine-silver of his eyes, and the dark lashes surrounding them. The faint hint of stubble darkens his cheeks.

He simply stares, great gulps of breath the only sound in the cockpit. I wait for the levy to break, but his eyes seem unfocused. It's hard to tell with the shine, the lack of iris to gauge dilation, but I think he's looking through me, instead of at me. The silence stretches on, getting thicker with every passing second. Then he blinks, just once, just enough to break the pall. In one sudden movement, he pushes himself off me, rolling back on his feet until he's upright.

One of those big hands rubs at his eyes; he shakes his head, denying something. I stay where I'm at, prone on my back. My fingers flex slowly, trying to work the tingle of skin-to-skin contact out. Finally, he looks down at me, and for a moment I think he may just offer to help me up. Not that I'd accept...

"Furya. Do you know where to find it?" There's a rawness to his voice, a passion I wasn't expecting to hear. "Can you bring me there?"

I push myself up until I'm sitting. Shoving my hair over my shoulder, I shake my head. His eyes close, shoulders hunching forward. It's not what he wanted to hear.

"It's gone. It... They weren't the most social of races. None of those four systems were." His back turns as I try to explain. I take the opportunity to regain my vertical base. "The Com-"

"Fuck the Company!" He snarls, rounding on me. "What do _you_ know? I want what you know!"

I barely manage to not flinch. "I only know what they tell me. Those four are lost. They resisted... They had no emissaries, no one to carry on their stories when they were gone." _Low and even_, I tell myself. That anger flickering in his eyes needs to fade. He needs to calm down. "Only rumors. Mercs who claimed to have been there, once upon a time. Everything I know comes from _them_; I can't help it. _They _did the legwork; they got the data."

My curiosity is eating at me. I want to know why that one system has his attention. One dead planet out of twelve. He's vibrating still, barely containing rage and frustration. The air tightens around us as I step forward, breaking the spaces of his personal boundaries to reach out, and take his hand in mine. He glances down to our hands, then lifts his other to rub thoughtfully at his face. He doesn't curl his fingers around mine, as if he could deny the fact that I'm still sticking around even after the way he tries to bully me.

"I would rather try to save hundreds of billions of lives, by stopping them in their tracks; instead of trying to clean up in the wake of their destruction." My fingers tighten momentarily, but he still doesn't respond. I would gladly do anything to know what's going on behind those silvered eyes, just for a glimpse of his thought process.

After a moment, he leans toward me, taking a long, slow breath, in through his nose. There's that rumble in his chest, the sub-vocal thrum, that I feel rather than hear. Finally, he pulls his fingers from mine, raising his hand to point over my shoulder.

"Cargo bay. Ten minutes."

* * *

**Author's Note:** Sorry about the delay! I had to get this just right, following the intensity of the last chapter. It's a delicate balance to maintain, between these two! Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Riddick**

Over the past few hours, I have battered Mnemosyne; I have beaten her. I have roared and screamed, and done everything in my power to drive her to quit. And still she hangs on. She's more stubborn than any human I've ever come across. And she's unpredictable, back and forth between strong and innocent, without any warning. Not many people would have the stones to slap me. I may have been a little more brutal than was needed. When she finally gave, too exhausted and too spent to continue, I had simply left her in the cargo bay.

The ship is programmed to cycle the lights to mimic a standard day. Nim never came back into the cockpit. I had no desire to doze, no need for sleep, but I still found myself half-awake. At some point, I jerk awake. The ship is dark. The chronometer shows we still have at least a standard before we make it to the Outpost. I need to make up my mind about her. Soon. I make my way back toward the bunks. I feel a need to check on her, to make sure I didn't do any permanent damage. She's easy to find: she's the cleanest smelling thing on this ship.

She sleeps curled on her side, one hand curled under her cheek, while the other hangs off the edge of the slab. She looks like she fell asleep mid-clean-up. A bloodstained cloth lays puddled on the floor. The split on her lower lip has just started to scab over; the black eye finally starting to mouse up. She's given as good as she's taken though. I'm not without my own scrapes and bruises. Mine just fade faster.

I'm not entirely sure what to do with her. I should leave her on the outpost, but something tells me that she needs to be involved.

_One by one, they will come to you. They will find you._

Those words ring in my head as I lean against the open hatch. Sentences from a half-remembered dream. I scratch at my jaw, watching her sleep, listening to the slow, even pattern of her breathing. Unbidden, I remember what it felt like to have her pressed up against me, how soft her lips felt. I growl softly at myself. She's a distraction. She's a liability. I can't entirely believe that she can take care of herself. But...

I sigh. I am going to regret this. Every time I choose to give a fuck about someone other than myself, it never ends well. Carolyn Fry, torn right from my arms; her face still haunts me. Imam, broken, thrown from a catwalk like a piece of trash; he'd been the one man I dared to think of as _friend_. Kyra...

I close my eyes and spin away from the hatch. Stop thinking. Thinking doesn't solve anything. I need action. I need to ditch this stinking merc ship, and get something smaller, something less conspicuous. I'm just about to walk away, when I hear her stir. The combination of the rustle of fabric, and the soft half-moan/half-sigh she makes freezes me in place, my stomach twisting in response. I wait to see if she'll settle back down.

"Riddick?"

Dammit. I glance back over my shoulder, picking her out easily in the dim artificial night. That shiner is starting to swell under her left eye, but she's squinting to make me out in the shadows.

"Just making sure you're still breathing." I tell her, still not turning completely back to the bunk. I can see her start to smile. Halfway through, there's a wince, and her fingers lift to press to the split in her lip. I turn away, looking back out into the corridor. I shouldn't feel guilty.

"Still breathing." How can she sound so cheerful? Because she knows I've caved. She knows what I've decided even before I do. I listen to the rustle of bedclothes, the almost-silent pad of those bare feet across the steel decking. I'm not surprised in the least when she lays a hand against my arm. "I wasn't planning on falling asleep. I'm sorry."

She's still standing behind me. I take up almost the entire hatch. When I glance back, it's her bruised side that's facing me. I turn completely toward her, taking her chin in my grip. She doesn't flinch. She's getting used to this. I turn her face a little, examining the mouse forming under her eye. We need to do something about that. I let her go, and turn away, motioning for her to follow all at once. She trails her hand along the corridor as I lead her back toward the mess.

Once there, I pop a few cabinets, opening doors and slamming them shut. These mercs had to have cold storage. No crew in it's right mind would be without it. Aside from preserving food, it was handy in preserving evidence of bounties best taken dead. I eventually find it, low against the desk in the form of an insulated drawer. And just like I hope, it has contents. Grabbing the first thing I find, I hold it out to Nim.

"Yeah, that's it." I didn't even need to tell her what to do. She automatically raises the cold package up to her eye. She leans against the counter, winces, and readjusts. "Show me your ribs." I reach for the hem of her shirt, but she knocks my hand away.

"I'm fine, Riddick." She glares at me with her good eye, the vibrant green more rich in the half-light. "Just bruised."

"Show me yo-" I'm cut off by a sharp tone echoing through the speakers of the craft. It's an alarm, but not one I'm familiar with. I'll deal with Nim later. I'm up the gangway and spinning the pilot's chair around before the third sounding of the tone. Moments behind me, Nim slides into the copilot's chair. I'm already checking anything that could go wrong. We have plenty of oxygen, plenty of water; the fuel cells are in good standing. There's no debris in our trajectory, no change to our course settings. I lean to look out the viewport, and I feel a knot unwind in my shoulders. No rogue comets, either.

Nim is calmly looking around the cockpit. The noise doesn't seem to bother her as much as it does me. While I'm checking read-outs, and gauges, and pressures, she's just looking. Just as I'm about to check a display for the third time, she catches my arm, directing my attention upwards.

There's a light, flashing in time with the annoying tone. I reach up, push the button, and raise a brow as the data screens in the cockpit flicker, flashing the Company logo. It's a recorded message, probably transmitted as soon as Michaels got picked up from Cetarian One. It's not my first look at the man, but it is Mnemosyne's. I hear her breath suck in from shock.

"_You have my ship, you murdering sack of shit!_" The merc leans too far into the camera, jabbing a finger at the lens. I lean back in the pilot's chair, and smirk. I'm supposed to be intimidated by this? "_I will find you. And I will make sure something eats your face!_"

I reach up, punching down the volume. I don't need to hear the foulness that's making his face turn purple. Nim however is staring at the display. "I take it you don't know him."

Numbly, she shakes her head. Instead of answering me, she raises her fingers to her cheek, and presses, feeling the teeth and jawbone that lie beneath the flesh. She's trying to figure out how he got that hole in his face. I plan on keeping her ignorance of Noah Michaels complete. The message, and threats, end just like they began, with the Company logo flashing across the screen.

In the silence, I'm already planning my next move. Ditching this ship has always been on the list, but now it's just moved up to top priority. Nim looks thoughtful. "They can't catch us," she muses suddenly. "They're whole standards behind. Unless they get some military, turbo-twin, way-out-of-their-payscale pick-up. Right?"

"Let's just get to the Outpost." It doesn't do anything to stop her from worrying. But she sets back in the seat, and puts the cold package of meat against her eye again.

"The Monastic Order of St. Joseph of Cupertino. Mosjacks..." I shoot her a glance, and she shrugs. "I read, Riddick, don't look so shocked. I should go put the hinges back on the cryotube. We'll get a better trade for it."

She starts to stand up, but I stick an arm out, and block her exit from the chair. "What did you take out of that, anyway?"

"The data module." I don't let her by with that answer, waiting for more. She reaches out and traces a cord of muscle on my bicep, her fingers featherlight. "It has everything I know about the Necromongers. I figured if I wasn't useful to you, _it_ would be."

I pull my arm back, freeing myself from her touch. But I swivel in the chair to watch her as she walks away. She pauses before she drops off the gangway, feeling my eyes on her. And for a moment she turns halfway, looking back at me. I let our eyes meet, but it's Nim who holds the contact for long, silent moments. One corner of her mouth quirks: a smile that doesn't quite make it. Then suddenly, she's gone, hopping down the two stairs into the corridor, and out of my sight.

Fuck. She knows I'm not going to leave her behind.


End file.
